


bottom of the sea

by VerdantMoth



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Beaches, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Introspection, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Ocean, Sea, Stars, canon adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 13:22:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: “Did you really want to go?”The question doesn’t break the peace. That’s impossible here, miles and miles of empty shore surrounding them, a wall of tall grass shielding them.“I dunno,” Bucky shrugs. “Maybe a little.”Clint strokes a thumb across the back of Bucky’s metal knuckles. “Would you’ve taken me with you?”





	bottom of the sea

Death is warmer than Bucky imagined. He floats, even though he knows he’s lying in an alley against cobbled brick, between large dumpsters and rat bones. 

He’s floating though, like it’s summer. He remembers a beach, grey sand and tall grass and foamy waves. Too hot, his skin peeling. 

Red. 

He lifts his hands, both of them red, wet. The water washes over him, gentle swaying and there’s salt on the air. 

A breeze? No, fries. Bucky frowns, because he’s confused about that. The beach has no fries. Does it?

He sucks in a breath, and it hurts. He’s  _ too deep,  _ the water is dark, swirling around him. Down, he sinks down. Something heavy on his chest, something bitter in his gut. 

It  _ burns _ . Dying isn’t supposed to burn. Bucky has died a thousand times. It was always cold before. Is this how he knows it’s real?

The waves are back, washing over him; he closes his eyes and lets himself sink. Down, down, down into the murky quiet. 

There’s a hand on his face, bow calloused, thick and warm. A voice he cannot hear. 

Bucky’s tired. Down to his bones, all the way deep and even deeper. Into the parts Steve says are the universe and Tony says are neurons and Peter calls his soul. 

“It’s supposed to be this way,” Bucky tries to say. “It was supposed to be cold, actually, so this is better.”

There’s a beach and he’s floating but he wants to sink. The seagulls beep, beep, beep. 

Not right, his abdomen stretches, burns. “No,” he moans, “no, the water-“ 

He can hear the wind hissing in his ears, a sound that should comfort him. Something wraps him tight, and he’s shivering but he doesn’t know if he is cold or hot or dying still. 

“I want to go,” he whispers. 

_ Not yet, _ someone begs. 

“I need to go,” he screams. He can see the stars at the bottom of the sea, but just as his fingers - all of them flesh, reach them- the world goes red and metal slices through his stomach. 

He’s warm, sun kissing his skin, sand gritty along his back, his abdominal. It’s quiet except for the rustle of the waves, his heart ticking electronically. 

Dying takes a really long time. And it hurts. But it’s warm, soft. Expensive cotton against his bare back, a feathery pillow cradling his neck. 

Thick thighs pressed to his sides, bracketing his chest. Arrow fingers digging into a valley across his abs. 

Death is supposed to hurt. Bucky knows this. But he still grits his teeth, tries to swallow the scream spilling from his fracturing jaw. “Awe shit. Be still.”

The voice plunged him into the night sea, stars like freckles bruising under his fingers. 

Someone is pushing the sea back into his belly, someone’s stretching the sand across his skin all wrong. “No,” he moans, “I want to go back.”

Deep under the inky red water, he inhales lava that clears salt and chlorine from his lungs.

It taste like beach. 

Death isn’t linear, and it’s confusing Bucky. Street rot and salt and sun and metal rust and iodine. 

“Not yet, Bucky,” over and over and over but it isn’t Steve. It hasn’t been Steve for a long time. Steve left. “Why can’t I leave too?”

-

The knife comes while he’s clearing his head, mac’n’cheese sloppy joe running down his wrist. 

It’s a clean cut he never saw coming, blade so sharp he almost doesn’t feel it. He’s on a beach out east, down south. The grey sand runs red, the foam a crusty copper, the sea so pale he must’ve run empty. 

The sun goes bright. Too bright. Not yellow, white, perfectly circular. The cobblegrit sand is soft cotton and paper, his guys flow back into him. 

Bucky hates dying, but he can’t remember dead. He remembers this though, waking up. 

“What’s it like on the other side?”

Bucky blinks. “Why couldn’t you’ve let me go?”

Clint looks haggard, unshapely stubble, dark moons under his eyes, stupid hair twisted all wrong. “Wasn’t your time pale. We got some growin’ old to do.”

His heart ticks to the machine, his breath measured through a tube. The waves are still, the air chilly. 

“Where do you go, Bucky?”

Bucky grabs his hand, drags both their fingers over what will be a beautiful, jagged, half stitched scar across his belly, cutting right through the curls. “Get me outta here and I’ll show you.”

-

The waves are quiet today. They foam lazily across the grey sand, smooth beneath their feet. It’s a little chilly, but they have long sleeve shirts on. Clint rolls his jeans up; Bucky just lets the water soak straight through to his ankles. 

It smells like sun and sweat and salt. The waves kiss the shore rhythmically disjointed. 

“Did you really want to go?”

The question doesn’t break the peace. That’s impossible here, miles and miles of empty shore surrounding them, a wall of tall grass shielding them. 

“I dunno,” Bucky shrugs. “Maybe a little.”

Clint strokes a thumb across the back of Bucky’s metal knuckles. “Would you’ve taken me with you?”

Bucky blinks, back to the sea with stars at the bottom. He imagines Clint beside him, sinking down, down,  _ down  _ into the raging swirl. “If it was time.”

Clint eyes him, then the sand washing away from him. “How will you know?”

“We’ll have grown old, I guess,” Bucky shivers. 

Clint leads him to a towel, a blanket, too much skin for the weather, but it’s okay. 

Dying is cold, and warm, and hurts. Dying isn’t linear and it’s disjointed. 

Living is cold, is warm, cuts deep. But living holds you close, brings you up from the bottom of a sea that isn’t dotted with stars, but fractured broken corpses. 

It taste like sunscreen and mustard, and kisses languid until they’re shivering so hard teeth clack and skin pebbles all wrong. “To the house?”

“Can we stay there forever?”

“Hm. Well, at least until we’re found.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Bottom of the Sea (just don't go without me remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24722704) by [Nny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny)




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